


Fall Better

by eiirene



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: warbigbang, M/M, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiirene/pseuds/eiirene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a pair of skates (they have toe picks). It doesn’t end there. A story of two skaters featuring a cat, a gender-specific couch and a lot of ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Better

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a figure skating AU once. It was short, cracky, and relatively plotless. And then I started _thinking_ about it and then suddenly plot happened, and then this fic happened.
> 
> If you’re not a fan of figure skating, well, I hope that it won’t deter you from reading. I promise there’s not that many sparkly outfits and glitter (it’s _Brad_ , he wouldn’t put up with this shit, would he?).  
> If you do watch figure skating, this takes place in a universe where judges give fair marks and also Patrick Chan doesn’t win all things.
> 
> And now I have a lot of people to thank:  
> pjvilar, for agreeing to beta read this and then dealing with my mistakes and leaving me positive feedback. All of the remaining mistakes are mine.  
> emerald_skies, for helping me with medical terminology and putting up with my whining on skype.  
> kubis, for ass-kicking and letting me rant about this fic to her on IM incessantly.  
> Thank you, finite_farfalla and madnessisreal for making the amazing art for this fic! You’re the best.  
> Everyone participating in the Fic Finishing Fest at combat_jack for all the cheering and support when I was writing.  
> The warbigbang mods, for organizing the whole thing.  
> And last, but _definitely_ not least - jean_iris, if you had a dollar for every “thank you” you deserve, you’d be richer than Mark. This fic wouldn’t exist were it not for you and your insistency that I do not, in fact, completely suck at writing, so _thank you_ and this is for you.  <3

* * *

  
  
art by finite_farfalla

 

 _Q: Why did you decide to become a figure skater?  
A: I remember when I learned how to skate. It just felt… magical, you know? Like flying._

 

 

 _January 1994_

 

It starts like that: Carol and Hannah get ice skates for Christmas and Nate observes them learning how to skate. It looks fun, especially when the older kids do it, because they don’t fall down too much. Falling down hurts a bit. (Nate knows – he checked. Ice is hard, and also really cold.)

So, skating looks really fun, but watching can get boring after some time. Nate looks around – his mother has her back turned to him, talking to some lady working at the rink. He slips down from his chair and tiptoes to the edge of the ice, hovering near the board uncertainly. There is one girl, older than all of the other kids there; she skates in lazy circles around them, finally stopping to start spinning in one place, fast. Nate watches, transfixed. He looks back over his shoulder – his mom still hasn’t noticed him leaving the chair, so he steps on the ice and lets go of the board.

It’s a bit tricky – the ice is really slippery and it takes him a moment to get used to standing on it. He spreads his arms and turns around, slowly at first, then a bit faster. One spin, then another.

“Nate!” his mom exclaims and he loses his footing, landing on his butt (nothing’s changed – the ice is still as hard and cold as before. Somehow it doesn’t seem so important).

Mom looks concerned, pulling him up and brushing frost from his pants. Nate laughs.

His mother smiles down at him.

“Well then, we’ll have to see about getting you a pair of skates too, right?”

\---

 _December 1997_

 

The ice skates are lying on the floor in the corner of the room. Brad stares at them doubtfully.

It’s not that he didn’t want skates, because he did. Well, he didn’t nag, because Brad doesn’t do that, but perhaps he asked his parents for them a few times more than strictly necessary. But. . . Brad really wants to be a hockey player, like the guys he saw on TV, and it’s a really serious wish. It’s not like last year, when he wanted to be an astronaut, because that’s for kids and Brad has grown up from it already. Well, all right, maybe living in a spaceship could be really cool, but that’s not the point. The point is that the skates have toe picks.

Toe picks. Seriously, that’s for girls.

He’s in the middle of wondering if he could find a way to polish the blades to make them look more like the hockey ones when his mom comes into his room.

“Brad? Grandpa asks if you want to go out with him to skate.”

For a second Brad considers saying he’s tired, but his mom uses one hand to tilt his chin up.

“You know, some of the really good hockey players started as figure skaters at first.”

“Seriously?” Brad asks. “But figure skating is so --”

“Seriously. Ask Grandpa if you don’t believe me.”

Brad thinks about it for a moment. Well, if that’s true then maybe he really should learn how to figure skate first. And then he would be an even better hockey player, right? Right.

\---

 _October 1999_

 

“Remember, don’t panic. Even if something goes wrong, it doesn’t mean that it’s over, okay? Even if you --”

“Even if I fall, I have to get up and skate. I know that,” Nate says, looking up. His coach smiles and pats his head. Really, sometimes he thinks she’s more stressed about this than he is.

“Are you comfortable? The boots can’t be tied too tightly.”

“I know.” He nods again, just in case she’s still not entirely convinced. “I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good. And, Nate, it’s just regionals, okay? So don’t --”

Nate huffs a breath.

“It’s not _just_ regionals. It’s a _competition_. And skaters that place in the top four in regional events advance to the sectionals, and then the best go to the Nationals --”

“Nate,” his coach says, interrupting him. “Do you have the whole rulebook memorized?”

“No,” he answers solemnly. “Not all of it.”

The coach shakes her head. “Well, never mind.” The speaker’s voice booms in the almost empty rink, announcing Nate Fick, representing the Baltimore Figure Skating Club, as the next skater on the ice. “Good luck!”

The novice regionals look nothing like the competitions you see on TV. Except for the judges and the skaters’ parents, there’s almost no audience, so only awkward applause greets him when he skates to the middle of the ice rink. The ice surface is smooth, but the painted lines left after the last hockey game are still visible.

None of it matters, though, when he hears the first notes of the music. It really feels like he’s alone, the skates on his feet and the ice under the only real things around him. During those few minutes, he can fly.

This feeling stays with him when he’s standing on the podium, the gold medal a pleasant weight against his chest.

\---

 _October 1999_

 

Brad is forced to admit that figure skating is not so bad. All right, those outfits are ridiculous and he’d sooner give up his Marvel comics collection than agree to wearing something like that voluntarily. But apart from that, skating can be cool. Last night he snuck down to the living room when his parents were asleep and watched the World Championship re-runs. The parts where people were skating in pairs were boring, because they either didn’t jump at all or the jumps were less complicated and what’s the point in that. Also, all those lifts looked really stupid, especially when the girl was lifting the guy. That was just awkward.

But the single skaters were another matter entirely. There was one guy – Wynn or something – and he was really good. The commentators were talking a lot about one of the jumps he did, an axel, which was apparently really difficult, and that guy did it really well. It did look impressive.

Brad Googled it later. There were diagrams.

Which is exactly the reason why he finds himself here, in an almost deserted skating rink, fifteen minutes before the closing time, skates on his feet.

He’s been skating pretty regularly since last winter and by now the rink staff knows him well enough, so they won’t mind him staying a bit longer. He can hold himself upright with no problem. He even got the hang of skating backwards, but jumping will be tricky. Still, he saw that skating class last week and if a six year old girl can pull off a jump, he shouldn’t have a problem with it either.

He concentrates on what the book said - take off from the forward outside edge, landing on the back outside edge of the opposite foot, okay, he can do it. He starts out slowly, gaining speed as he moves across the rink. Just don’t hit the boards and it will be fine. He skates backwards, turning around at the last moment, pulls his right leg up and -- whoops, ow. Right, so maybe he should start with only a half-revolution, the triples will come later. In fact, maybe he should start standing on the floor, without skates. This sounds like a pretty good idea.

He turns around and goes back to sit on a bench, tugs his boots off. There’s a free space just outside the rink boards and it should make a nice training area. He jumps in place a few times before deciding he’s ready to try something more difficult and takes a run-up, jumping in the air and landing on both feet. His balance is a little off and he tumbles to the floor.

No, this won’t do.

He thinks again about the skater he watched on TV – he always did the same thing with his arms when he jumped, pulled them in and crossed on his chest, spreading them out on the landing. Maybe that’s the trick.

He stands up and brushes himself off, resolved on getting it right this time. He jumps up in the air, brings his arms closer to this body and this time something really feels different. He lands on one leg and extends the other one reflexively, jumping in place a few times to regain his balance.

“Oh.” He’s so astounded to find himself back on his feet again that he nearly falls over, but manages to stay upright. That felt good. Maybe he can try it on the ice now.

“What are you doing here alone?” A voice interrupts his thoughts. “Where is your coach?”

A man stands near the entrance and he’s frowning at Brad. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the skating club logo on it and Brad thinks he noticed him here a few times before. He shrugs.

“I don’t have a coach. This was just for fun,” he adds defensively.

“Hm.” The man looks at him more closely now. “And you never learned how to do that before?”

“Not really. I just looked at some websites and stuff.”

“Indeed. But you know you can’t really learn skating from a website, right?”

“I already know how to skate!” Brad protests indignantly, trotting to the bench and pulling his skates on. “I can show you,” he says and before the man has a chance to answer, he descends a few steps leading to the ice surface and skates off to the opposite edge. The man watches him, intrigued.

“Nice. Can you skate backwards as well?”

Brad nods and turns around, starting a lap around the rink.

“Don’t pump your back so much,” the man instructs. Brad slows down, unsure. “Hold your upper body steady, that’s right. And bend your knees a bit more, very good! Now stop.”

Brad stops, doing a little spin on one leg.

“Showoff,” the man admonishes. “But you’re good. What’s your name?”

Brad tilts his head and considers the pros and cons of answering the question. There is a rule about not talking to strangers, but the guy has a nametag with David on it, so Brad supposes technically it doesn’t make him a complete stranger. Just an almost-stranger.

“Brad,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m David. So, tell me, you never thought about skating professionally?”

“What, like in competitions?” Brad asks. “Dunno, I never really thought about it.”

“I think you could. Well, unless you’re scared you’re not good enough.”

Brad shots him a quick look.

“I can be better than this!”

“Really? But you’d need a coach, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess,” Brad says, digging his toe pick into the ice. He looks up suddenly. “I want to be a hockey player.”

David smiles. “Funny you should say that. I wanted to play hockey once, too.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because figure skating turned out to be more fun that I thought it would be. You know, you have to be tough to be any good. And when you win, your success is only yours.”

All right, that does sound good. Good enough that Brad is almost convinced.

“And, you know, it really is pretty ninja.”

“Okay,” says Brad.

\---

 _January 2001_

 

“He’s a jerk.”

“Who, the new guy?”

“Yeah, I tried talking to him earlier and he just ignored me. Thinks he’s better than everyone here.”

“Maybe he just wants to stay focused. Heard he’s training with Emerson. He’s big on that staying in the bubble and tuning the world out bullshit.”

“Nah, I’m telling you he’s a douche. How old is he anyway? Like fourteen? He’s not a freaking Godfather, he ain’t gonna win the champs now.”

Nate shuts his locker with a bit more force than strictly necessary. His coach always tells him to ignore the gossip, but sometimes it’s hard to do when everyone keeps droning on and on about it.

“You don’t even know him,” he says. One of the boys – Joe, fifteen, never won a medal yet – turns to him with a vicious look in his eyes.

“Aw, baby got offended? You gonna be best friends with him now, Nate?”

“Well, he’s bound to be more intelligent than some people here,” Nate mutters under his breath, toeing off his shoes.

“What did you say?” Joe comes closer, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“Nothing,” Nate answers, kneeling on the floor to dig out his skate from under the bench.

“Go back to preschool, kid.”

Nate looks up and raises his eyebrows.

“Maybe you should think about it, too.” He grabs his bag and goes to the exit. “Your laces are untied,” he says, shutting the door after himself.

His coach is waiting for him at the rink. “Something’s bothering you,” she says as soon as she notices him approaching.

“I’m fine,” Nate says, shrugging his shoulders.

She makes a disapproving noise and puts a hand on his back.

“Nate. You know you can talk to me about it.”

He bites his lower lip and shakes his head slightly. “It’s just -- Joe was being stupid.”

“And why were you paying attention to Joe?”

“He’s loud. It’s hard to ignore him when he starts talking.”

“So? What did Joe say?”

“I -- Nothing. I’m ready, we can start now.”

“No, we can’t, not until you tell me what it was exactly that upset you.”

Nate sighs, picking on his sleeve absent-mindedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t compete here yet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffs. “Nate, listen to me. You qualified for this, right? So whatever it takes to be here, you have this. You’ll do fine, I assure you.”

“Yes, coach.”

“And I told you to call me Jennifer,” she mock-admonishes him.

“Yes, coach.” He grins.

“Smartypants,” she laughs, ruffling his hair. “All right, let’s start with some laps.”

\---

Everybody complains about the waiting. Competitions always look like that – a few minutes of skating the programs and a lot of waiting. Waiting before the draw, waiting before the warm-up, waiting, waiting, waiting, cramped up in a tiny space with all the other skaters. Brad doesn’t mind it so much, though sometimes he wishes he could sneak out somewhere to be alone, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Maybe he’ll try. It doesn’t look like they’re going to need him here anytime soon.

The kid standing next to him keeps stealing glances at him when he thinks Brad isn’t looking. Finally, Brad turns to stare him down. The kid doesn’t avert his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

Brad remembers him from the short program yesterday, he was skating to some music Brad didn’t really recognize, but it sounded nice. And his outfit was nice, too, no extra sequins nor ruffles in sight (say whatever you want, but Brad still thinks most of the costumes are ugly as hell). Oh, and apparently he’s some sort of a prodigy child and he’s younger than everyone else here. He does look like he’s seven.

“I’m Nate,” the kid – no, Nate – introduces himself.

“Brad,” says Brad.

Nate observes him intently for a moment. Brad fervently hopes he doesn’t say something along the lines of “I liked your program yesterday” or “I hope you skate well tonight”, or whatever is considered appropriate small talk in these circumstances, because it’s still a competition and no one in their right mind would say that to their rival.

“So,” Nate says, “I’d wish you luck, but I kind of don’t, not really, you know?”

 _Oh_ , Brad thinks. He likes this kid.

“Well, I’d return the sentiment, but I don’t really want to, either.”

Nate nods and smiles, as if Brad just passed some kind of a test. And somehow Brad finds himself thinking that maybe, _maybe_ he wouldn’t really mind if Nate did have good luck today.

\---

>   
> **  
> [The young and the promising of US figure skating](http://i41.tinypic.com/24q47jl.jpg)   
> **   
> _By Susan Johnson • Photos by Jason Lilley_
> 
> The time for Junior World Championships is approaching fast and we can take a look at the top contenders for the medal. Team USA is particularly strong this year, especially the men’s single skaters. Nate Fick and Brad Colbert are both considered one of the favorites for the gold.
> 
> It’s already been a golden year for Fick. He pulled off a major victory after winning the men’s title at the Junior Grand Prix Final. Finishing on the podium at Worlds would be a wonderful end of the season for him. Brad Colbert went through a coaching change and trains now with Stephen Ferrando. This change seems to have been beneficial for him and he’s said to be in better form than ever.
> 
> The third slot originally belonged to Ray Person, who was forced to withdraw after an unfortunate injury to his leg. John Christeson will take his place, competing at Junior World Championships for the first time in his career.
> 
> (read more on page 8)
> 
>   
> 

\---

 _November 2006_

 

The skating rink is almost completely empty, his steps echoing in the space. Nate is running through his practice schedule in his head – he’ll start with a warm up session, followed by a quick program run-through. Then he’ll focus on perfecting the technical elements and he’ll finish the session with another -- hopefully clean -- repetition of both his programs. The same way he’s been doing it for the past few years. He sighs.

He’s a little early and his coach isn’t waiting for him yet, so he drops his skates on the floor and stands near the board, propping his left foot on the top and bending forward, stretching the muscles in his legs. He stays in this position for a while and his back twinges a little, but it’s a welcome kind of pain – after so many years of skating sometimes his whole body feels like a one big twinge.

He continues stretching until every muscle in his body feels soft and warm. When he’s finally satisfied he makes his way to the few steps leading to the ice surface, sitting down to take off his shoes. The elastic band on his ankle slipped a little, so he pulls it up. His toes are already covered with Band Aids and he puts a wad of cotton wool over his foot arch, securing it with duct tape. He slips the skates on, taking the guards off, dumping them unceremoniously on the floor next to him. They have a military camouflage pattern, a gift from one of his sisters.

“Oh good, you’re already here,” Jennifer says. “I got stuck in traffic. I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, turning around to look at her. “I’ve warmed up already.”

“All right.” She smiles. “Go ahead, then.”

He steps on the ice. It’s smooth – it always feels great, to be the first person to skate on the surface, just after the zamboni machine left. For a while he lets himself enjoy the peace, when the only sound he can hear is coming from his blades cutting through the ice. On an impulse he turns around, digging the toe pick into the ice and launching himself into a triple toe loop.

“Nate,” his coach says disapprovingly. “Save the jumps for later. But it was a good one.” He doesn’t respond.

He keeps getting distracted with little things all the time, though, and he frowns. Usually he doesn’t have trouble with isolating his thoughts while he’s skating, but today he’s really having a hard time focusing properly. It’s not a good mindset to have just before the World Championships.

“Focus, Nate!” Jennifer shouts across the rink. She’s already put on her skates and joined him on the ice. _No shit_ , he thinks. “Your edges are sloppy. What’s wrong? Come on, don’t give up.” She comes a little close, dropping her voice down. “Nate. I know you need a break, I understand, and it’s okay. But it’s a very short period left and you can do it, I know you can. Don’t give up on yourself that easily.”

“I know!” he snaps, “I don’t need a fucking pep talk!” And great, now he’s taking out his frustrations on her. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t --”

She pats him on the back.

“It’s all right. How about this, give me a clean run through the short program and then we’ll talk.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He stands in the middle of the rink, head bowed, one arm bent at the elbow, the hand touching his shoulder lightly. The music starts and he makes a sweeping motion with his hand, his body following the movement. Jennifer stays quiet for the whole program and he manages to lose himself in the melody once again, all the steps already ingrained in his memory.

He nails it for the first time today.

They have the talk later – well, he supposes it’s been a long time coming, but it’s still somewhat of a shock when Jennifer calmly announces that she feels their cooperation is no more productive or beneficial for his career.

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “Are you kidding? But the Worlds are in three weeks and now -”

“No, no, Nate, relax,” she protests vehemently. “I’m telling you now because I think it might actually help you if you know what’s going on. I’m not leaving you now, but I think, after the Worlds – maybe we should look for a different coach for you.”

“Oh. Okay, if you think so…”

“No, I -- Jesus. I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” she says, shaking her head. “All right, let me start over. You are a great skater, Nate, and you really have so much potential, that sometimes I feel I’m just not good enough for you anymore, you know?”

“So, you’re saying it’s not me, it’s you,” he states dryly after a moment of silence. “You totally just dumped me.”

She laughs. “Yes, I cannot continue being in this relationship with a clear conscience anymore.” She looks at him softly and says, “C’mere.” He lets her hug him with one arm, leaning into her side and they sit in silence for a while.

“Just don’t let it go to your head,” she adds. “You still need to work.”

“Yes, I’ve been assured of this,” he informs her, smiling openly now.

“Good.” She nods. “So get to work, what are you waiting for? A special invite? I want to see two clean programs today, so better get moving!”

He lets her hustle him out of the locker room, back on the ice.

\---

 _November 2006_

 

“Braaad, this fucking sucks!” Ray moans. He sits down on a step and stretches his leg in front of him. It’s covered in plaster from foot to thigh.

“Don’t be a pussy, Ray,” Brad says.

“Fuck, homes, I’d like to see you like this,” Ray retorts, adding as an afterthought. “Oh, _right_ , I forgot. You’re the Iceman, you’d probably skate with two legs broken. We can’t all be superheroes like you, Brad.”

“Don’t sit on the ground Ray. You’ll freeze your ass to the pavement,” Brad says, grabbing Ray’s crutch and holding it out to him. Ray stands up slowly, wincing a little, and takes it without comment. Brad observes him closely.

“You all right?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, I’m fucking all right,” Ray replies. Brad looks at him doubtfully. “Seriously, homes. It’s fine.”

Brad sighs. Getting a confession form Ray on a serious matter is sometimes harder than holding a decent conversation with a wall. “You’ve been to the doctor?”

Ray looks like he’s not going to answer the question, but eventually he makes up his mind.

“Yeah. They said my leg’s probably fucked for good.”

Brad doesn’t comment, because what would he say? That he’s sorry, that he knows how Ray must feel? He doesn’t; he hopes he never will. He just nods instead and Ray seems to get it.

“I think I’m gonna finish school,” Ray adds after a moment. “And then maybe go to college.”

The idea of Ray in college really isn’t so crazy, because Ray’s not stupid, but Brad still snorts in disbelief, for tradition’s sake. “And what, you’re going to turn into a wine-sipping communist dick-suck?”

“No, I’ll be a sports commentator,” Ray says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Brad already fears for whatever TV station would employ him. “Which means I will be offering my invaluable insights into figure skating, so you totally need to work on getting into my good graces.”

“Ray.”

“I’m serious, homes. Do you have any idea how much dirt I have on you now? I’m sure the audience would love to hear it, like that one time when you -”

“Ray. Shut up.”

“That’s not nice, Brad!” Ray shouts indignantly. “Definitely not going to earn any points in your favor.”

“Ray. Shut up, please,” Brad deadpans.

Ray throws his hands up, mock-offended. “Fucking Iceman. A man just can’t win,” he adds good-naturedly. “And speaking of ice-related things, don’t you have a training in the morning or something?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Godfather demanded his presence for a four hours practice session at 6am, since the world championships were less than two weeks from now. Evenings like this one were a rarity now. “And I really better get going, wouldn’t want Sixta to chew me out for not looking my best in the morning.”

“Oh man, that guy’s still so obsessed with that? Colbert!” Ray barks in a perfect imitation of Brad’s assistant coach. “What is you some kind of goddamn hippie faggot? Fuck is this? Why the fuck is your shirt out of regulation?” Brad shakes his head in amusement. Ray continues in his normal voice. “Remember, Brad, maintaining a proper grooming standard is a priority. You skate with your shirt untucked, you get tangled in it during a spin and then you fall down.”

“Yes, Ray. Thank you very much for the invaluable input.”

“Always at your service, Brad.”

\---

>  **[Fick goes for gold](http://i42.tinypic.com/15yis5v.jpg)**  
>  _Junior World Championships came to an end_  
>  By Evan Wright, special to theinsideedge.com
> 
> (12/02/2006) Junior World Championships in Seoul ended in a success for Nate Fick. The 16 year old from Baltimore will return home with a gold medal around his neck.
> 
> “Nate was in great form during the whole season,” his coach, Jennifer Browning, said when asked for an opinion. “I’m very proud of him.”
> 
> “It was an amazing experience,” commented the young medalist.
> 
> Although he already earned the champion title, Nate knows there’s still room for improvement. “I just wanted to skate my best and I’m glad that I managed to do that, but I know that I can be better. I’m always trying to challenge myself.”
> 
> The United States led the medal count with five, while Russia finished with four. Brad Colbert grabbed the silver, finishing just behind his teammate. In ice dance, Tony Espera and Gina Alvarez finished in the first place […]

\---

 _December 2006_

 

“Nate? Are you going to sleep?” his mom asks, standing the doorway.

“Mhm, in a minute,” Nate replies, not looking up from his textbook. He’s got a history essay due tomorrow and he really needs to finish it soon. Usually he’s a sucker for everything WWII --especially battles fought by marines, because they are seriously badass -- but right now he’s not a big fan of even the Battle of Iwo Jima.

His mom sighs and steps closer to his chair, setting a mug of coffee on top of some papers strewn around the desk. Nate hastily picks it up and moves it to the surface not covered by anything that could turn out to be his half-finished assignment.

“Just don’t stay up too late,” she says, ruffling his hair.

“I won’t,” he promises. Well, maybe that’s not exactly true – but in Los Angeles it’s still early, right? It’s all relative.

He starts a new page, writing on it in a neat script. There are many things that can be said about being a junior world champion, but it certainly doesn’t make the teachers go easy on him. It’s not that he really minds – he won’t be a figure skater forever and school is important. Maybe he’ll go to college after he retires, but to do that he needs to graduate from high school first and that requires finishing the history essay, among other things.

He goes to sleep late, long after his parents and sisters. He sets the alarm clock for 6am and buries his head under the covers.

The buzzing sound wakes him up in the morning and he reaches out to turn it off, accidentally knocking the clock down to the floor. At least it stops making noise. He sits up, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly.

In the kitchen downstairs his mom sends him a disapproving glance when he forgoes breakfast in favor of coffee.

“I’ll eat a sandwich on the first break, promise,” he says, shrugging into his coat and running out the door. “See you later!”

With the championships over, going to school like a normal person still feels a bit surreal. He never thought he’d get used to the almost constant attention from sports journalists and fans during the skating season, but somehow he did, so being able to get on the bus without anybody asking him for an autograph is a bit of a novelty right now. It’s nice.

He’s forced to reconsider his statement about fans when a girl he dimly recognizes from one of his classes corners him right before the first period begins and asks in a breathy voice if he’s the Nate Fick that just won the junior Worlds because she was in the audience with her dad and it was seriously so amazing she can’t even.

“I, uh, thanks?” he says and cringes inwardly when she produces a pen and a scrap of paper from somewhere on her person.

“Could you sign it? Seriously, it would mean so much to me,” she asks. Before now, he was convinced that the expression ‘hearts in eyes’ was used only figuratively, but she seems to be quite talented at pulling it off.

“Yeah, no problem.” He stays still for a moment, desperately trying to remember her name.

“It’s Caroline,” she supplies helpfully.

“Yeah, I knew that.” He’s probably not very convincing, because she sends him a look that clearly says ‘and pigs can fly’. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.” He hands her the paper back and she inserts it between the pages of her notebook, beaming at him.

“Thanks a lot! And I meant it, you were brilliant.”

“No problem. And thank you too, I appreciate it.”

She smiles at him again and looks ready to comment on his brilliance one more time, so he quickly excuses himself, saying he really needs to go to class now. She waves at him and calls, “See you around!”

One of the guys observing their exchange taps him on the back when he turns in the direction of the classroom.

“Dude, did she just ask you out? You gave her your number? Damn, man, the things I’d give up to tap that…”

“No, she just. . .uh, never mind. She definitely didn’t ask me out.”

“Pity. Oh well, more for me then. You don’t happen to know if she’s dating somebody?”

“No, I don’t,” Nate says. “Sorry,” he adds.

Nate hopes this would be the first and the last time somebody pulled the amazed fan act on him today, because he kind of hoped to go back to being anonymous for a while. Most of his classmates don’t give a rat’s ass about figure skating (or at least he hopes so) and he’s not one to brag about it, so the number of people at the school who actually know that he skates could be counted on two hands. They all probably know that he does _some_ kind of a sport – he certainly misses enough classes to justify that. Or they just think he’s an absolute slacker who only bothers to show up on the important tests.

Unfortunately, the world seems to be conspiring against him today, because as soon as he sets foot in the classroom and approaches the front desk to turn in his essay, the teacher stops him in place with a gesture and turns to the class. Mr. Miles is a nice guy and he’s probably one of Nate’s favorite teachers, but he seems dead set on announcing Nate’s latest success to the world at large.

He’s a few minutes late, Nate realizes suddenly, so the classroom is already filled and everybody is staring at him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Miles starts, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about it already, but I am very pleased to announce that we have our own champion right here in this classroom. I’d like to offer my congratulations to Nate Fick, who just won world figure skating championships in Seoul this year.”

Half of the people present fake interest and clap politely. The other half tries very hard (and fails) to hide the laughter. Nate can hear snickering from the back of the classroom.

His media training kicks in so he smiles in response and says, “Thank you very much, sir.”

More snickers at the back.

When the class is over a few of Nate’s classmates gather around him in the corridor.

“Hey, chick-Fick!” someone shouts. They really should brush up on their nicknaming skills, Nate thinks, because that’s beyond lame. “Shouldn’t you wear a fluffy skirt or something? Isn’t that what figure skating is about?”

It’s easier to ignore the idiots, so Nate doesn’t comment, opening his locker.

“Fucking faggot,” somebody spits out. Nate turns around.

“What did you say?” he asks in a surprisingly calm voice. The guy takes a step back. “Say that to my face or shut the fuck up.”

“Come on, James, you gonna let the queer push you around?” one of the guy’s friends says, throwing a dirty look towards Nate.

“I said you’re a fucking faggot. You like it, don’t you? Spending so much time in a locker room with other drag queens in sparkly dresses?”

“Every one of those drag queens, as you put it, could probably take you down any time without too much effort,” Nate retorts.

The guy scowls and pushes him into a locker. Nate grabs his collar in both hands and pushes him away.

“You don’t want to do this,” Nate says quietly.

One of the guys observing their interaction comes closer. “Come on, man, let’s go. Don’t waste your time on him, he’d probably cry if we messed up his pretty face.”

Nate turns to him, speaking fast. “This is between me and him. Nobody asked for your fucking opinion.”

“I’m not scared by somebody who spends his free time shaking his ass covered in tights.”

Nate takes a step in his direction. The jock flinches and steps back. Nate stops.

“That's pretty rich coming from someone who plays a sport that involves big sweaty dogpiles with other men in tight pants,” says Nate. He snaps his locker door shut and adds, “And I think you spend too much time thinking about my ass. Just for future reference, my ass is definitely not interested.”

Nobody comments when he walks away.

 

* * *

 

 _Q: Do you ever have doubts? You don’t wish you picked a different career path?  
A: Of course I do. I think everyone does. But there are good moments too, and to me, they are worth everything._

 

\---

 _April 2007_

 

Bryan Patterson is awesome. That’s one thing Nate can say for sure.

They’ve been training together for almost a month and Nate hasn’t felt so good on the ice in a long time. Patterson has this kind of positive energy around him and his presence alone is enough to make Nate try to be the best he possibly can.

He feels so invigorated he would gladly stay longer at the rink, but Patterson gave him strict orders to lay low for the first few weeks and not overexert himself, so Nate dutifully gets off the ice after the two hours of his scheduled training session every day and goes to change back into his normal clothes. Nate falls into the routine quickly. He also suspects he might be turning into an ultimate Patterson’s fanboy, but it’s not as if he can help it when he’s training with an Olympic champion who also turned out to be a fantastic person.

All in all, living in Ontario seems to have only the good points. His mom spent the first few week calling him every day and worrying, but eventually gave up after she realized that Nate is doing fine on his own and not going to die of malnutrition any time soon. Even the whole mess with changing his school in the middle of the term was worth it.

The skating rink is amazing, too. He was introduced to the staff on his first day and they all seemed so friendly. Dorothy from the bar is an older woman who seems to have taken upon herself the mission of ensuring that Nate is eating properly ( _because you are all so skinny, it’s unhealthy, here, have a sandwich_ ). There’s also Stéphane, the zamboni guy, who is one of the nicest and most genuine people Nate’s ever met, even if he has a problem with grasping the basic concept of personal boundaries.

And then there’s Brad.

Nate knows him, obviously – it’s hard not to get to know somebody when you’ve been competing against them for six years – and they’ve talked a few times, but he wouldn’t go as far as to call them friends. They hung out a few times after a competition was over, during the gala events, but neither of them initiated contact outside of that.

Brad trains with Stephen Ferrando and they book practice time at the same rink that Nate is using. The arrangement works out pretty well. Their training sessions never coincide, but they have met a few times, when Nate just got off the ice and Brad was putting his skates on outside the rink boundary, or when Nate arrived for his afternoon practice and they passed each other at the door.

His skating club in Baltimore wasn’t a really big one and there weren’t many skaters on his level training there, so the first couple of times he walked in on Brad changing into his practice outfit in a locker room felt a bit weird. Slowly, he got used to sharing his space with another skater and Brad has been nothing but friendly toward Nate in all this time.

All right, Brad hasn’t said much to him except an occasional “hello” when they’ve passed each other in the corridor, but Nate knows him well enough to interpret this as silent approval. He’s grateful for that, because the situation was weird enough without feeling like he was intruding.

He opens his locker and takes out his towel and a clean shirt. Sitting down, he tugs his skates off and stretches his legs out. He’s not really tired, not after only two hours worth of practice, but Bryan has been immovable in his insistence to take it easy. Besides, he’s not working on any choreography yet. They’re just trying to improve his technique on some of the jumps that were giving him trouble before.

“Nate, are you still here?” Patterson says, ducking his head into the room. Nate leans forward, looking around the corner.

“Yeah, I was just going to take a shower.”

“All right. Come back to the rink for a moment when you’re done.”

“Okay,” Nate replies, picking up his stuff. He goes to the small bathroom located at the back of the room. He undresses quickly and steps under the spray, the hot water soothing his tense muscles.

Patterson is waiting for him outside and Nate stops short, because there’s another man with him and he looks like Mike Wynn, only it can’t really be him, because what would Mike Wynn do at a skating rink in Ontario? The man is practically a legend, having won four World Championships in a row, before retiring a few years ago and going into choreography.

“Nate, glad you’re here,” Patterson says. “This is Mike Wynn.”

Nate is sure his brain has just short-circuited, because _Mike Wynn is at the rink with him_. Wow.

“Hello,” he says, fervently hoping he’s not staring too much.

“So, Nate, you know that Mike is a choreographer now, and I really think you could benefit from working with him. If you are interested, of course.”

“I -- Oh God, yes, of course I’m interested!” Nate exclaims and then adds quickly, “That is, if you’d like to work with me, sir, I’d be honored.”

“Mike’s fine,” Wynn laughs. “And yes, I’ve watched some of your performances. You have great potential, but we need to work on bringing your personality out some more.”

“Perfect, that’s settled then,” Patterson says, nodding approvingly. “Nate, you can go home now. We’ll sort out all the paperwork tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s great.” Nate smiles. “See you tomorrow then.”

He bumps into a delivery guy on his way out, almost colliding with him when he turns the corner.

“I’ve met Mike Wynn,” he informs him over a pizza box, still a bit dazed.

“Uh. Good for you, then?” the guy replies, looking at him with puzzlement.

Yeah. Definitely good for him.

\---

 _May 2007_

 

There’s a small line at Starbucks when Brad comes in, only three people in front of him – a girl ordering some extremely complicated drink that takes her a minute just to spell out, Nate and an older lady. Brad wonders what kind of coffee Nate prefers, plain black or some pussy latte. Or maybe he drinks tea, he looks a bit like a tea kind of guy.

“A double espresso, please,” Nate says when he reaches the counter. Well, that rules out the pussy beverages theory.

“That’s $2.50,” the girl behind the counter informs him. Nate digs into his pocket, only to come out empty-handed. He frowns, opening his messenger bag.

“Sorry, just let me find my wallet,” he mutters, searching for it frantically. The girl taps her fingers on the counter.

“I can’t put that on the cuff for you,” she says annoyed. The older woman standing behind Nate coughs impatiently.

“I know, I’m sorry, I think I left my wallet somewhere else. Sorry,” Nate apologizes, biting his lower lip.

“Here, I’ve got it,” Brad says, taking a bill out of his pocket and putting it on the counter. Nate startles, turning back to look at him.

“You don’t have to -” he starts, but Brad cuts him off.

“No big deal, you can pay me back later,” he says.

“I will,” Nate promises. “Thanks a lot.” He waits for Brad while he orders his coffee (black, no sugar, whatever you call it here) and they grab a table in the corner.

Nate pulls out a stack of books from his bag and sets them on a chair next to him. Brad eyes them questioningly. Right, Nate must still be in high school. “Homework?” he asks.

“Yes,” Nate confirms. “I have a few tests coming up and I really don’t want to fail them. You don’t go to college.” It’s an observation, not a question.

“No,” Brad says. “I could have, but I haven’t really wanted to. Not like I would’ve been able to focus on it much, not with skating at the same time.”

“Sounds logical,” Nate says and smiles wryly. “But we really don’t need to talk about school.”

“We don’t,” Brad agrees. “What do you want to talk about then? Your training? I’m sure I could get you to share some very useful tips and use them to kick your ass at the next Nationals.”

Nate laughs earnestly, throwing his head back. Brad allows himself a small smirk.

Nate starts to say something when they are interrupted by a girl. She’s the one who was placing an order that took a hundred years to prepare. Brad dislikes her on the spot.

“Hi, I’m sorry, but are you Brad Colbert? I thought I recognized you.”

“No, sorry,” Brad says, leaning back in his chair. “Who the hell is Brad Colbert?”

The girl snorts derisively. “Oh, he’s a figure skater. But I guess you wouldn’t care anyway,” she adds, turning on her heel and walking away.

“You get a lot of fans asking you for an autograph?” Nate asks. He’s keeping a perfectly straight face, but the look in his eyes gives his amusement away.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I even sign something for them,” Brad says. “Jesus, but some of them are fucking crazy if you ask me.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Nate laughs. “Last year after the press conference at the junior Worlds there was a woman, she was probably older than my mother, but I could swear she tried to feel me up. And to top that, she was there with her daughter, and the daughter asked how old I was, so I told them. Both were very disappointed by the truth.”

“Well, you do look a bit like the winner of a jailbait of the year contest,” Brad comments.

“Fuck you,” Nate says, smiling. “But now it’s your turn to share a story, so spill.”

Brad thinks for a moment and says, “I did a show last year, with Rudy – you know him, right?” he asks and continues when Nate nods. “Anyway, we finished in the evening and went back to the hotel. Our bus was leaving after midnight, I think it was close to 2am, and we were just leaving for it when the door opened and Poke came in, saying _dawg, there’s a bunch of white girls waiting for you outside_.”

“At 2am,” Nate says.

“Exactly.”

“Well, that’s some dedication.”

“More like highly developed stalking,” Brad snorts.

“Well, I guess you could call it that,” Nate says. His phone starts ringing in his bag, so he bends down to pull it out. “Sorry,” he tells Brad and answers the call. “Hello? Oh, yeah. Really? Yeah, thanks. I can be there in half an hour if that’s all right. Okay, see you.” He turns to Brad and says, “Sorry, I have to run, a friend wanted to arrange a study group meeting. I might as well show up if I don’t have a practice in the afternoon.”

“Sure. See you around,” Brad says.

“Tomorrow. Do you have a practice in the morning? I can pay you back then.”

“I do, in fact.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Nate says, slipping the strap of his bag over his head. Brad watches him go, finishing the rest of his coffee in a few gulps.

\---

Brad’s on the ice, working on his short program. Nate leans against the wall, listening to the soft strains of music from the rink. He’s never heard Brad’s program before, he didn’t even know what Brad was skating to this season. It’s something strong and confident, if music could even be described that way. Powerful. It suits Brad.

It’s not long before it’s quiet again, under the maximum limit of two minutes and forty seconds, but it feels longer when Nate tries to imagine Brad’s every move on the ice. He could try to look, but Brad’s coach probably wouldn’t take too kindly to competition sneaking around the rink during his skater’s practice. But the music ends and soon he can hear footsteps outside the locker room. The door opens with a bang, Brad storming inside. He didn’t put his skate guards on, he’s holding them in his hand instead.

Nate refrains from asking “is everything all right?” or some other moronic question like that, since obviously something is not right.

“Hey, I’ve got your money back,” he says instead, hoping to distract Brad from whatever has him in a snit.

Brad doesn’t answer, rummaging in his locker. He still hasn’t taken his skates off and the ice chips on them are starting to melt, leaving small drops on the floor.

Nate pushes himself off the wall. He comes closer and sits down on a bench opposite Brad.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been assured I make a pretty good listener. If you’re in a mood to talk.”

“I’m not,” says Brad through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” Nate says. “Then we can both be silent.”

Brad sits down as well, pulling out a tissue and wiping the blades on his skates meticulously.

“Sorry,” he offers after a while. “I’ve been having a shitty day and my coach is not helping.”

Nate nods, not interrupting. Brad sighs.

“My coach, he’s been serving me this fucking moto bullshit all day. I just had enough. The assistant’s not better, going on about how my fucking shirt was untucked and he wasn’t satisfied with my grooming. I’ve been fucking up my lutz all day and that’s the best they can offer me. And if I hear the word _tempo_ one more time, I’ll go crazy.”

“You know what,” Nate says, “forget the money. You clearly need a break, come on, I’m taking you out for coffee.”

“I can’t.” Brad shakes his head. “I have to go back there.” He gets up, but then seems to think about it again. “No, fuck this. If I see Sixta again today, he’s going to get more closely acquainted with my skates than he’s ever wanted to. Let’s go.”

“All right. Do you need to change? I’ll wait for you outside.”

“Yeah, give me ten minutes.”

Nate leaves him alone and Brad joins him a while later, sports bag slung over his shoulder. He’s changed clothes and his hair is still damp from the shower.

“Coffee,” says Nate.

“Definitely,” Brad agrees.

“So how long have you been training with Ferrando?” Nate asks later, when they’re sitting in Starbucks, two identical mugs of coffee in front of them.

“About six years,” Brad answers. “Since I advanced to juniors.”

“That’s a long time,” Nate remarks.

Brad snorts. “Yeah. People always wonder why I don’t just find another coach, but I don’t want to. He’s good, you know, he’s basically a technical genius. And I don’t want a friend, I want a coach.”

“I wasn’t asking that,” Nate says. Brad looks at him evenly.

“You were thinking it.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Nate denies. “I get this. It can’t always be perfect, right? So we have to make do.”

“You make it sound like such a chore,” Brad comments.

“It’s figure skating. Did you expect sunshine and rainbows?” Nate replies, face deadpan.

“I don’t know, have you met Rudy?” Brad asks. Nate laughs, leaning back in his chair.

Talking to Brad is easy, so easy that they lose track of time and eventually Nate has to leave, almost late for his evening practice.

“I’ll see you around. Or. . .” He pauses, biting his lip. Brad looks at him questioningly. “How do you feel about another coffee? Tomorrow afternoon. If you have the time,” Nate says quickly, before he changes his mind.

“I don’t.” Brad shakes his head. “Practice,” he says by the way of explanation. “Or is that your way of preventing me from kicking your ass at the Nationals?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“What? No!” Nate protests. Shit. Brad’s remark brings him back to reality, because they might get along well, but the truth is that Brad is _competition_. And you don’t just go around inviting your competitors for coffee dates.

“Relax, Nate, I was joking,” Brad says. “I’ll see you around.”

“Sure,” says Nate, already going for the exit. He really shouldn’t be late and Brad’s comment reminded him he’s got some serious ass-kicking to do this year. Because he’s certainly not in it for sunshine and rainbows.

\---

 _January 2008_

 

Brad is alone on the ice, standing in the middle, facing the judges’ stands. The first notes of the music reverberate through the air. Every day, every hour spent at the training, it all comes down to this – the few minutes of a program, when he’s left to his own devices, when there are only his skates between him and the ice.

He doesn’t think when he skates, he doesn’t have to, the choreography basically ingrained in his muscle memory at this point, after countless repetitions. He lets himself get lost in the movement just a little bit, because this is what he loves about skating, speed, solitude, and no one can touch him.

He steps out on the landing of his last jump, but doesn’t fall down. He’s still standing when the music ends.

Later, he’s sitting in the kiss & cry area, and his coach is saying something, _good, but I expect to see more aggressiveness from you in the long program_ , but Brad’s still on adrenaline high and he’s not really listening. And then his scores come through and he’s in the first place, all the judges unanimous.

Nate’s on the ice after him, the last skater in the group. They haven’t competed against each other for two years, when Brad already moved on to the seniors’ competition and Nate stayed in juniors for a couple seasons more. And now they’re here.

Nate skates a fast, jazzy routine, and he’s – he’s flawless, almost flying through every jump and when he’s halfway through the program, Brad realizes that he’s going to skate the whole thing perfectly. Nate looks like he still can’t really believe it when he hits the ending pose, after a combination of dizzying spins. His smile is blinding and Brad watches him on a small monitor in the mixed zone, reporters chattering excitedly around him.

“He’s the enemy here,” Godfather rasps. “He’s the one to beat, Brad, and we can do it with a clean long.”

The next day Brad skates a clean, solid long program, but Nate still skates better. In the kiss & cry Bryan Patterson squeezes him around the shoulders, grinning triumphantly and Godfather is scowling most of the time, but Brad, to his own surprise, doesn’t really care.

When they stand on the podium Nate is taller than him.

\---

 _March 2008_

 

Brad is changing into his practice outfit when Nate storms into the room. He’s looking as if he just rolled out of the bed, his hair sticking out in every direction.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stopping in the doorway. “Have you seen Bryan anywhere? My coach,” he adds.

Brad slips his plain black t-shirt over his head.

“I saw him when I just came here. But I think he was leaving. Didn’t you have a practice in the morning?” he asks.

“Damn it,” Nate mutters under his breath. “I did, I already called him in the morning, but I wanted to apologize in person. I thought he’d still be here.”

“What did you do, you overslept?” Nate is usually so well put together that it’s strange seeing him like this.

“No. Jesus, don’t even ask,” he says, sitting down on the bench. “I had a hellish morning.”

“I’m not asking. But I can’t say I’m not intrigued.”

Nate slinks down in his seat and looks a Brad, shrugging helplessly.

“My upstairs neighbor left the kitchen faucet on overnight. My apartment is a mess, there’s water everywhere, I spent the whole morning wiping the floor and it’s still wet. And I’ll probably have to move out for a few days, until everything dries off.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll ask around, maybe I’ll find a cheap hotel near the rink or something.”

“I have a couch,” Brad informs him.

“That’s… good?” says Nate, puzzled.

“Yes. It’s a very nice couch, I’ve been told it’s quite comfortable. And it’s also not occupied at the moment, if you’re interested.”

“Really?” Nate asks as if he can’t believe his ears.

“I offered, didn’t I?” Brad raises an eyebrow.

“That you did,” Nate says, sounding relieved. “Then yes, I’m very interested in your couch. If it’ll have me.”

“I’ll ask her,” Brad assures him, smiling. “You can drop by in the evening, I’ll tell you what the answer was.”

He finishes tying his laces and gets up. Nate catches his wrist and looks him in the eyes.

“Hey. Brad. Thank you. Really, I appreciate it,” he says, not letting go.

“It’s not a problem. I’ll text you the address when I’m done here.”

\---

Brad’s apartment is nice, if a little empty. It’s definitely a bachelor’s domain. There are a few empty plates scattered around the living room and a couple of DVD boxes in front of a TV screen. The furniture looks almost unused.

And there’s a couch, of course. It does look comfortable, wide, with a few fluffy pillows.

“This is Eloise,” Brad says when they come inside.

Nate blinks at him. “I thought you were joking when you said your couch was a she.”

“Not the couch.” Brad doesn’t say _you moron_ , but his look conveys the sentiment adequately. “The cat.” As if on cue, one of the pillows meows and leaps off to the floor. A black cat trots to them.

“I didn’t take you for a cat person,” Nate says, kneeling on the floor. He reaches out to pet Eloise, but she hisses at him. Nate gets to his feet quickly. Brad doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

“Technically she’s my sister’s, but her kid turned out to be allergic to cats. So she stays with me now. My mother takes her when I’m away. Come on, I’ll show you the kitchen.”

“Right,” says Nate, strategically sidestepping the cat and keeping to the opposite side of the room.

\---

Nate tries to keep as far from the cat as possible for the whole week. It’s hilarious, if you ask Brad.

\---

Brad’s fridge is woefully empty. Nate goes out to buy groceries – he figures it’s the least he can do, after Brad’s let him live with him for a week. Then he sets out to make dinner.

The cat comes into the kitchen when he’s halfway through. Nate drops a few pieces of pork loin in her dish as a peace offering, but the cat only sniffs disdainfully and ignores them. She hides under the table and watches Nate’s ankles all the time, her tail flicking slowly from side to side.

“Hi. I made dinner,” Nate says when Brad comes back from the rink.

“You didn’t have to,” Brad tells him.

“The fridge was almost empty. Really, do you eat at all when I’m not here?

Brad pretends to take offense, but he helps himself to a second serving when he’s eaten everything. Thankfully Nate’s made enough that there are still leftovers when they’re done.

\---

“Honey, I’m home!” Brad exclaims the next time when he comes through the door.

“Dinner is in the fridge, you can reheat it,” Nate says, emerging from the bathroom. His shirt is sticking to his still damp skin. “I have to go, my practice is in half an hour.”

Brad burns the potatoes. Not that he’s going to admit it when Nate comes back.

\---

Nate is fairly sure the cat hates him.

One of Eloise’s favorite pastimes seems to be lurking in dark corners and waiting for an opportunity to attack Nate’s ankles. His hands have a few scratches on them that weren’t an effect of skating-related accidents.

(Brad magnanimously offered to help him put a band-aid on them.

“Fuck you,” Nate replied.)

Currently Eloise is sitting under the table while Nate occupies the couch and engaging in a staring match with him.

“Brad, your cat looks like it’s plotting my violent death,” Nate says, not averting his gaze.

“She,” says Brad, not looking up from his laptop.

“What?” asks Nate.

“My cat is a she,” Brad explains. “And she’s not going to kill you.”

“If you say so. But you’re the one who’ll be hiding my body if you’re wrong,” Nate says and flops down dramatically onto the pillows.

\---

One day Brad comes into the room to find Nate asleep on the couch, Eloise curled up on his chest. She wakes up a moment later, stretching out and looking curiously at Nate. Slowly, she raises a paw to pat his cheek.

Nate’s eyes blink open and he promptly freezes in place.

They stay like this for a while, looking at each other. Eventually Eloise seems to decide that Nate passed some kind of a crucial test, because she gets up, stretches her back and lays down again, this time on Nate’s stomach. Nate lets out a relieved breath.

Brad bursts out laughing and Nate shoots him a wounded look.

“See,” he says. “I knew she would start to like me.”

\---

When one week turns into two, neither of them says a word.

But after two weeks, all the walls in Nate’s apartment are freshly repainted, the smell is gone and there’s really no reason to put it off any longer. So it comes as quite a revelation when Nate realizes he doesn’t really want to move out.

Sure, the couch was comfortable, but not _that_ comfortable, so he shouldn’t have any problem with packing the rest of his stuff and leaving.

“Ready? I’ll bring your things to the rink if you left any,” Brad says coming into the room. “There’s nothing of yours in the kitchen.” He’s just got out from the shower and his skin is still damp in a few places, the shirt sticking to his body.

Oh.

“Yeah, I’m ready. Thanks again,” says Nate.

“You’re welcome. See you later, then.”

“Bye,” Nate says, turning around and leaving before he has the chance to say something fucking absurd like _I’ll miss you_ or worse.

So it wasn’t the couch. He’s so fucked.

\---

>  **[Fick poised to be the next big star](http://i42.tinypic.com/2yjxy6p.jpg)**  
>  _All eyes on the young national champion_  
>  By Evan Wright, special to theinsideedge.com
> 
> (04/14/2008) For a national champion, Nathaniel Fick is nothing but modest. He made an impressive senior debut at last season’s Nationals, receiving 88.75 points for technical elements and 86.06 points for program components in his long program – a really overwhelming result. Nate, as he asked me to call him, turns 19 next January. He placed fifth at the World Championships in April.
> 
> I visited him at his home rink in Ontario where he trains on a daily basis with his coach, Bryan Patterson. Before I had a chance to interview him, I watched him skate. Even though it was only a practice, he still managed to impress me with the elegant simplicity and the beauty of his lines. His skating is filled with emotion and he possesses the rare ability to convey it through even the smallest gestures. When I finally was able to speak with him in person, I was delighted to meet an intelligent young man with a wonderful sense of humor.
> 
>  _There’s been a lot of buzz that you’re the next rising star of U.S. figure skating._
> 
> I certainly don’t think of myself as someone special. I have a very large group of supporters – my coach, my family, they are responsible for my success as well. And I probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my first coach. She helped me so much when we trained together.
> 
>  _Yes, you went through a coaching change last year. Bryan Patterson is your coach now, but you trained with Jennifer Browning previously. Was it an amicable split?_
> 
> Definitely. We got along really well; it was actually her suggestion to start looking for a new coach for me, somebody who could challenge me more every day. I had a great working relationship with Jennifer, but we both felt I needed some change in my life if I wanted to keep learning.
> 
>  _And what a change it’s been! A first place at the Nationals in your senior debut, that’s an amazing result._
> 
> Thank you. As I said, a lot of people deserve credit for this.
> 
>  _Tell me about your plans for the next season. Your first Grand Prix competition this year is Skate America in October. Are you ready?_
> 
> I know I can still get better. The season hasn’t even started, so of course it’s not perfect yet, but I work hard every day with my coach. I’ve also begun working on my quadruple toe loop and I hope I can include it in my programs soon.
> 
>  _I wish you luck, then. And what about your plans for the off-season?_
> 
> I’ve been invited to a couple of galas – Champions on Ice in Los Angeles and one show in Europe, in France. I’m very excited about them.
> 
>  _Have you looked ahead and set goals for the Nationals and Worlds next year?_
> 
> I’ve thought about it, yes. I know it sounds terribly clichéd, but I really want to just focus on skating my best at those events. I’m not underestimating my competition. There are some great skaters competing this season.
> 
>  _Who’s got a shot at the medal, in your opinion?_
> 
> Oh, Brad Colbert, definitely. He’s one of the best there. And Rudy Reyes, he’s amazing.
> 
>  _You and Brad train together, don’t you?_
> 
> We train at the same rink, yes. I’d really like to be able to say that we’re friends.  
> […]

\---

 _May 2008_

 

The hotel is not the most comfortable that Nate’s ever stayed in, but at least it’s close to the rink and the mattress is soft – though frankly, at this point Nate would probably be satisfied with a hole in the ground. It’s already noon here, but his body is convinced it’s still the middle of the night and he decides to forgo unpacking in favor of a short nap. He sets the alarm clock to wake him up in an hour and collapses on the bed.

When he wakes up again, Brad Colbert is sitting on the other bed, idly flipping through a magazine. The last time Nate saw him was at the World Championships last month. He wasn’t consciously trying to avoid Brad, not really, but it wasn’t hard to do, not when they both had less intense training schedules in the off-season and Nate was able to stay in Baltimore with his parents more often than not.

Brad looks good, surprisingly well-rested. Nate stares at him for a little longer than appropriate.

Someone up there must really have it in for him.

“Hi,” Nate says. “They didn’t tell me we were going to be roommates.”

“I think we might be the only people in this hotel speaking English. It took me more than half an hour just to check in.”

Nate sits up on the bed. His suitcase still lays unpacked in the middle of the room, so he sets to hanging his clothes in the wardrobe. His skates are at the bottom and he puts them on a shelf near the door. Brad’s own skates are already there.

He decides he must have a masochistic streak in him that he wasn’t previously aware of, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is: “Did you get the gala schedule? I think there’s a group number practice in the evening tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure we can do whatever we want until then. I really wanted to do some sightseeing.”

“Are you kidding?” Brad snorts, stretching out on his bed. “I’m not moving from this room until I absolutely have to. I can’t even understand what they are saying to me here.”

“Well,” Nate says, picking on a lint on his trousers. “I’ve been assured my French is passable.”

Brad looks at him incredulously. “Of course you would speak French,” he says shaking his head. “When did you even have time to learn that?”

“I took French in high school.” Nate shrugs.

“Fine,” Brad sighs. “But no sooner than tomorrow morning, you won’t force me into dealing with all those frog-eating dicksucks today.”

“I’m not even going to attempt it. Jet lag really is a bitch. How come you’re not tired as hell?”

“I am.” Brad smirks. “I’m just choosing not to whine about it like a pussy.” He laughs when Nate throws a pillow at him. “Winning has made you soft, Mr. National Champion?”

“You’re just jealous,” Nate quips.

“You wish. I could kick your ass any time, Fick.”

“Prove it,” Nate laughs.

Brad doesn’t answer, just observes him through half-closed eyes. Suddenly his look turns more predatory and he launches himself at Nate, pinning him down onto the mattress, hands curling around Nate’s wrists.

“Do you yield, Nate?” he asks softly, looking him in the eyes.

 _Fuck yes_ , Nate wants to say, because Brad is laying half on top of him, one of his legs between Nate’s knees and Nate’s finding this really hard to ignore. He takes a deep breath, licking his lips unconsciously.

“Brad…” he says quietly.

Nate’s heart is beating fast in his chest; he wonders if Brad can feel it, too. He moves a little, bringing his right knee up and Brad’s whole body tenses immediately. Nate freezes in place then, too, because seriously, what the fuck are they doing?

“Brad, get off me,” he says and Brad lets go off his wrists, sitting up and retreating from Nate’s space quickly. Nate coughs.

The awkward silence is interrupted by a sharp knock. Brad gets up to his feet and crosses the room, opening the door slightly.

“Bonjour monsieur,” says the maid and launches into a long speech in rapid-fire French.

“I’m sorry, do you speak English?” Brad interrupts her. She blinks at him.

“Engleesh? Non, je suis désolée, je ne parle pas anglais,” she explains. Brad just shakes his head helplessly.

“Okay, I’ve got this,” says Nate, coming up behind him. “Je comprends le français un peu,” he tells the maid and she beams at him, picking up where she left off. She speaks fast, gesticulating a lot and Nate winces.

“Pardon,” he says. “Pouvez-vous parler, uh, plus lentement?” he asks and she nods, slowing her words down. Nate listens intently and turns to Brad.

“They have room service here. We can order dinner today if we want to and apparently it’s been pre-paid,” he translates.

“Well, do you want to order in?” Brad asks. Nate considers it.

“Yeah, we could. I don’t feel like going out tonight, not really.”

“Fine,” Brad agrees. “Do they have a menu here?”

Nate exchanges a few more sentences with the maid and she leaves them a menu card, telling them to ring the reception desk when they’re ready to order.

“Here,” Nate says, handing Brad the card. “It’s in English.” Their fingers brush when Brad takes the paper from him and Nate withdraws his hand quickly.

He really needs to get a grip on himself, or the next few days are going to be hard. Pun very much not intended.

\---

The next day Brad grudgingly lets himself be dragged to various touristic sights, after extracting from Nate a promise of going for a good coffee when the day is over. A map in hand, they go to explore the city and after a while Brad finds himself listening to Nate’s improvised history lecture. The topic has never held much interest for him, but Nate is so enthusiastic about it that anybody would have trouble ignoring him when he talks about old battles and dynasties.

“And that’s the Church of the Holy Cross. Can you imagine it’s more than 700 years old?” Nate says. His eyes are shining and he looks relaxed, smiling at Brad. Brad smiles back, because Nate’s excitement is a bit contagious.

It’s a startling revelation, because Brad doesn’t like letting his guard down in front of other people as a rule, but somehow Nate makes it all easier.

However, as interesting as it is, there’s only so much sightseeing Brad can handle, so when the sun begins to set, painting the stone facades orange, he spots a small café almost hidden at a narrow street and points it out to Nate.

“I believe I was promised coffee in exchange for putting up with this,” he says.

“Don’t act like it was such a hardship.” Nate smirks. “But fine, let’s see what they have to offer here.”

The café is small and a bit cramped inside, but not in a bad way. Several customers sit on mismatched armchairs, talking in hushed voices. The smell of freshly ground coffee permeates the air.

They find a table near the back, squeezed in a partially curtained-off corner of a room. There’s only a two-seater sofa next to it. Their knees bump together when they sit down.

Nate reaches for the drinks list. “Do you have any preference?” he asks Brad.

“Coffee,” Brad answers. “Dark. Strong.”

Nate laughs. “I’m pretty sure there was a bad pun in there, but I’m not going to stoop so low. How about an espresso then?”

“It’s fine.” Brad nods.

Nate motions for the waitress and she comes to collect their orders. She speaks English, Brad notes with relief, but lets Nate order for him anyway.

Their drinks arrive shortly after – café au lait for Nate (which Brad suspects is a fancy French name for ordinary latte) and espresso for Brad – though Brad isn’t even sure there’s enough for two sips in the cup. The cup itself more closely resembles a thimble.

“Water for you, sir,” says the waitress, putting a glass in front of him.

“To drink after your coffee,” Nate supplies helpfully in reply to Brad’s confused look. “Trust me, you’ll need it.” He smiles disarmingly.

“Why the hell would anyone serve a glass of water with espresso? These pussies can't even handle – ow, fuck!” he coughs after downing his coffee in one go. The stuff could probably burn a hole in the floor.

“Told you.” Nate has the temerity to laugh, the fucker. “It’s not the kind you’d get in Starbucks.”

“That’s why you ordered latte? Oh, you’ll pay for this,” Brad threatens, drinking his water. It’s blissfully cold.

“You said you wanted something strong.” Nate shrugs, smiling innocently.

“You are American, no?” The waitress, who still hasn’t left their table, asks. She looks like she’s enjoying the show. “You will learn to appreciate proper coffee, no worry. American coffee is no good,” she says disdainfully.

“Do you want another one? Since you finished yours already…” Nate asks.

“No, thank you very much.” Brad tells him. “I think my throat will never recover.”

“Your choice. Here, try this,” Nate says, sliding his own cup towards Brad. “I promise it’s good.”

Brad takes a cautious sip – he’s not going to repeat his previous mistake – but the coffee tastes good. It’s delicate and not too sweet, a bit like warm coffee-flavored ice cream.

At Brad’s barely perceptible nod Nate’s face lights up and he leans forward to take the cup from Brad when he offers it back. Their knees touch again under the table and Brad doesn’t move his leg back. Nate startles and looks Brad in the eyes. Then he looks down at his cup, but Brad thinks he can feel him pressing his knee into Brad’s leg, the pressure so light it might as well be accidental.

It probably is accidental, Brad decides when Nate takes a sip from his cup and his face doesn’t betray anything. He must be reading into things that obviously aren't there.

Neither of them move for a while, until Nate clears his throat.

“It’s getting late. We should go if we don’t want to be late for practice,” he says. He quickly finishes his coffee and puts the cup back on the table.

“Yes.” They pay at the counter and exit the café. It’s a short walk to the skating rink, less than half an hour, and they still have enough time, so they don’t bother with calling a taxi. The weather is nice, sunny but not unbearably hot.

“Brad.” Nate takes a deep breath. “I --” he pauses, shakes his head.

“What?” Brad asks when it becomes apparent that Nate isn’t going to continue.

“Never mind,” Nate tells him. “It wasn’t important.”

Brad wants to call bullshit, _not important my ass_ , but he doesn’t.

They don’t talk for the rest of the way back and Brad isn’t entirely sure what the fuck has just happened.

\---

Their group number is ridiculous, in Nate’s humble opinion. Some of the moves resemble more a chicken dance than anything else and the costumes really don’t help – bright, colorful shirts with far more sequins than should be allowed and bell-bottoms. It’s all very _Dancing Queen_ , not that Nate has anything against ABBA, but some things really shouldn’t be done.

The gala is starting in a few minutes and Nate can already hear the audience talking in their seats, waiting impatiently for the show to begin. He feels the adrenaline start to kick in, the familiar rush when his body gets a bit restless, heart beating faster.

He catches sight of Brad in his peripheral vision – he’s talking to one of the female skaters, a girl from Canada. Nate doesn’t know her very well, but she seemed nice when he talked to her a couple times. Brad probably thinks so as well, because he’s smiling slightly, listening as she says something to him. Nate averts his eyes before he has a chance to do something stupid, like get _jealous_ of something he can’t even have in the first place.

A harried assistant runs up to them, telling everybody to take their places. The tech guys are going over the schedule one more time and Nate tunes them out, trying to get into his headspace again.

The beginning of the show passes in a blur. They skate the opening number and Nate rushes backstage to change into the proper outfit for his exhibition. It’s a fast piece but with a sensual edge to it that Mike choreographed for him. For a short, crazy moment Nate wonders if Brad is watching, before he ends that train of thought.

The audience applause afterwards is deafening, the sound echoing in the arena, even though he botched a jump, but probably no one has even noticed. He grins to himself, bowing down low. A little girl skates to him and hands him a stuffed teddy bear that somebody has thrown on the ice. He hugs her and she squeals with delight.

He doesn’t have to skate again until the end of the show, so he takes his skates off after he steps off the ice. He wipes the blades carefully and puts the guards on them, before padding in his socked feet to the locker room. Somebody is rounding the corner just as Nate comes near and they nearly collide, Nate grabbing a handful of a black shirt.

“Whoa, easy,” he hears Brad say. Strong hands come up to his arms, steadying him.

They’re standing in a sequestered area, far from the lockers and the tech rooms. It’s dark here and almost quiet. Nate wants to say something, to break the silence, but the words are stuck in his throat and he can’t avert his eyes. Brad is wearing his skates and their height difference is even more pronounced.

Nate makes a low noise in the back of his throat and something flickers in Brad’s eyes at that. He leans down, keeping his gaze fixed on Nate’s face. They’re so close, too close for it to mean anything else and Nate closes his eyes instinctively, hoping --

“Brad, are you ready? You’re on the ice in one minute!” somebody shouts. Brad straightens with a soft curse and takes a step back.

“I -- Sorry,” he says, looking somewhere over Nate’s shoulder. “I need to --” He gestures at the door behind Nate and Nate moves away, feeling like an idiot.

“Sorry, I was just --” he mutters. “Um. Good luck.”

Brad nods, disappearing quickly through the door.

“Fuck,” Nate whispers, looking down at the teddy bear he’s still clutching in his right hand. “I’m so stupid,” he adds. The bear looks at him with unblinking eyes. It looks like it agrees.

\---

>   
> **  
> [Grand Prix series a disappointment for Fick](http://i41.tinypic.com/21l38d2.jpg)   
> **   
> _Nate Fick doesn’t make it to the GP Final_
> 
> By Ray Griego | Posted: Nov 22, 12:11p ET | Updated: Nov 22, 12:11p ET
> 
> Trophée Eric Bompard is over and we can state with all certainty that Nate Fick will not make it to the Grand Prix Final this year. After a less than satisfying performance at Skate America, where he barely made the podium, he buried his chances completely today, finishing eighth after his long program. Fick, asked about it after the competition, stated that he didn’t feel well going into the program. “I skated like I wanted to get out of there and it showed in my performance. Now I want to focus on my training before the upcoming competitions. Today was a lesson and I learned it. I hope to put this behind me and improve my results.”
> 
> Coach Bryan Patterson said about his student: “His performance was off, but we’re going to analyze it and pinpoint what’s wrong. He’s a good competitor and he trains hard.” Perhaps as a way to justify Fick’s results Patterson also added, “Sometimes he’s just too accommodating for everybody and it messes with his training. So we’re going to keep a bit more under the radar strategy this time. I want to let him focus solely on his training now.”
> 
> We can only ask ourselves if Fick’s good result at the Nationals last season was only a fluke. Given his performance this season, his chances at defending the title look really slim.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments  
> Sign in or register to comment and rate comments
> 
> ninja_turtle | good luck, Nate! | +4  
>  _1 hour ago_
> 
> I really hope he’ll do better. I loved his programs at the nats last year!  
> ___
> 
> ohdear_ohdear | so that really sucked | -11  
>  _50 minutes ago_
> 
> >>We can only ask ourselves if Fick’s good result  
> >>at the Nationals last season was only a fluke.  
> well, that’s true. he sucks, you have to be blind not to see it. just another pretty boy that all the judges fall in love with, but that’s all there is  
> ___
> 
>   
> 
> 
> twirls_n_twizzles | re: so that really sucked | +17  
>  _45 minutes ago_
> 
> Not to start a war, but I don’t think that’s fair. He was brilliant when he was competing in juniors, it’s not like the last Nationals were his first competition ever. And he’s bound to be really stressed this year, what with the way the reporters have been pestering him all the time. Kudos for Mr Patterson for saying this!
> 
>   
> 
> 
> ___
> 
> Dustin77 | I call bullshit | +18  
>  _37 minutes ago_
> 
> Just wanted to say that the author of this article is a judgmental asshole
> 
>   
> 

\---

 _February 2009_

 

“And we’re back with our short program commentary, live from Delta Center in Salt Lake City. This is Gary Wilson.”

“And Paul Anderson.”

“The last group has finished their warm-up session already.”

“On the ice right now is Nate Fick.”

“Oh yes, the defending champion, earned a truly wonderful score last year.”

“But he had a slump in form this season, didn’t make it to the Grand Prix Final. Will he manage to win this time?”

“Well, there’s certainly a lot of pressure on him right now. He must make these opening moves, starts the program with a triple axel – oh no.”

“In the practice session yesterday he had a bit of trouble with the jumps and now he repeated the same mistake.”

“Now a combination, triple toe-triple toe… and he got that one, almost collided with the boards, but he did it.”

“I think the second jump might have been a bit under-rotated, we’ll have to wait for a repetition in slow motion to know for sure.”

“Straight-line footwork sequence into a triple flip jump. And now a spin combination, oh, this is good!”

“Very well-centered.”

“I’d risk saying that spins are definitely his best element.”

“Maybe he drinks Swiss water.” [chuckles]

“Ah, yes, there is something about the Swiss and their spins. And he can rival the best of them.”

“32.76, that’s his technical elements score. And 34.50 for program components. One point deduction for the fall and he’s currently in the fourth place.”

“He doesn’t look too happy with the score, that’s no wonder.”

“Let’s hope he’ll be able to pull himself together in time for the long program.”

“And the next skater is Rudy Reyes. We’ve been hearing about his plans for retirement after this season.”

“Yes, I think he will make an official statement when the season is over.”

“It seems that now the way to the top spot is still open, so this is his chance for a perfect end of his competitive career.”

“Well, Fick can still come through after the long program, we’ve seen it happen.”

“And now Rudy Reyes starts his program. He has a quadruple toe planned first – yes! and he lands it. Perfect.”

“His jumps really are amazing. Easy, smooth outflowing edge. And now watch this, the arc of his next jump. The entrance edge, the landing edge. The completeness of the arc, oh, that’s just perfect.”

“He’s nailing this program so far.”

“And now the sit-spin, changed sit-spin. A little off-center here, but still very nice.”

“Another jump, a triple salchow this time. And, yes! Clean landing, wonderful.”

“Waiting for the judges’ scores impatiently…”

“Oh yes, well, that’s terrific. He’s easily in the lead now”

“Brad Colbert is skating next. He was the silver medalist last year, and also two years ago.”

“I think he’s tired of coming in second place. This may be a year of change for him.”

“Definitely one of the crowd’s favorites, just look at the number of banners.”

“Oh yes, he does have a lot of fans. Well, he’s one of those skaters who really deserve it.”

“He has great technique. The artistic value can be argued sometimes.”

“No, no, his programs are artistic, in their own way. A little, a little dry, maybe, but that’s subjective. He’s rather reserved on the ice.”

“But there’s a charm in that. This is a steady, clean, confident program.”

“And it’s not easy, some of his elements are extremely challenging. Like this step sequence, amazing.”

“It’s a fast program, great tempo. You can see the influence of his coach here.”

“And it’s over already.”

“Those are wonderful marks, 78.39 overall. There’s your new leader.”

\---

>   
> **  
> [US Nationals results are up](http://i42.tinypic.com/15wf2vc.jpg)   
> **   
> _Nate Fick talks about his performance, makes plans for the next season_
> 
> By Anne Miller | Posted: Feb 14, 07:36p ET | Updated: Feb 14, 07:36p ET
> 
> US Nationals just came to an end. Brad Colbert took the gold, ahead of Rudy Reyes and Evan Stafford. Nate Fick, the defending champion, ended off the podium, dropping down to fifth place after he fell twice in his long program today. We held an impromptu Q&A session with him.
> 
> Q: Nate, can you tell us what happened?
> 
> A: I made mistakes. I guess I wasn’t focused enough. I’m going to work on my technique now, to hopefully prevent this from happening in the future.
> 
> Q: This cost you a place on the world team.
> 
> A: I am aware of this, but wishing it had gone differently won’t change a thing. I have months to practice now and I want to draw conclusions from this season. I know I can be a better skater. This season was a difficult one, but it happens.
> 
> Q: So you’re planning to make a comeback next year?
> 
> A: I’m planning to be the best I can be.

 

 

* * *

 

 _Q: What do you think when you fall down?  
A: I think, get up!_

 

 

 _October 2009_

 

Nate lies on his couch and flicks idly through the channels. The NBC coverage of NHK Trophy is due to start in a few minutes, so he picks the channel and goes to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat.

He’s considering ordering pizza – after all, he can allow himself an indulgence once a few months, and besides, watching NHK means watching Brad compete for gold and he needs comfort food for that – and he’s already picked up the phone when the coverage finally starts. He doesn’t pay much attention to it at first, but then the words “Colbert” and “injury” register in his brain.

He tries to put the phone down, but he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, so it just drops down to the floor. They’re replaying the accident when he gets back to the living room and he watches Brad fall down in slow motion. The commentators are trying to analyze it, talking about the take-off, the wrong landing and whatnot, but Nate stops paying attention to the words.

His first impulse is to call Brad, but of course he’s not going to pick up. So he calls his coach instead.

“Nate.” Patterson picks up after the first signal. He sounds concerned.

“I’m watching NBC,” Nate says and he realizes with dismay that his voice is shaking.

Patterson curses under his breath. “Nate, try not to freak out too much, all right? I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“Okay,” Nate whispers, ending the call. He sits on the floor and leans back against the couch, waiting.

In the end it’s Mike who calls him.

“He’s in a hospital. They say there’s going to be a surgery,” he says without preamble. Nate is glad for it. He doesn’t need mollycoddling.

“Do you know how serious it is?” Nate asks and wants to laugh, because how stupid was that question? They’re going to operate, of course it’s fucking serious. It sure as hell looked serious. He feels sick.

“Couldn’t find out any details. The official statement will be out later.”

“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem, kid.” Mike hangs up.

Nate stays on the floor, looking blankly at the TV screen where the competition continues as if nothing has happened. He’s not sure how much time has passed when he finally goes to bed, dinner forgotten.

\---

People always say the time slows down before an accident. Brad begs to differ. There is no slow motion, his whole life doesn’t flash before his eyes. He doesn’t even know the moment he launches into the jump that it’s going to end like this – it all happens too fast. One second he’s skating his routine and the next he’s lying on the cold ice.

He doesn’t even feel any pain at first. He’s still feeling a little dazed from the fall, but he’s pretty sure that he felt something pop in his knee and that’s definitely not good. Pops are bad. Whole careers have ended because of them.

He tries to get up and his leg just won’t cooperate. His knee gives out the moment he tries to put his weight on it, and that’s the moment he realizes that something is seriously wrong. The paramedics are with him right away, checking him for any other injuries.

It’s probably a bit absurd that Brad’s first coherent thought, as he lies on his back staring up into the bright lights of the skating rink, is _damn, there goes my backup climber career_.

They take him to a hospital after that and the next few hours pass in a blur of people in lab coats poking at him and throwing around words like _torn ACL_ , _grade III sprain_ and _surgery_.

It’s that last word that makes the blood in his veins run cold.

\---

Nate tosses and turns for most of the night. The next day he wakes up with a splitting headache.

He makes breakfast, a bowl of cereal, and eats without appetite. His mom calls him when he’s doing the dishes, sounding worried.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“I’m not the one who’s in a hospital right now, am I?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says. “And… Nate, please be careful.”

“I am,” he tells her and for the first time it really strikes him what she must feel like, watching him skate during all those competitions, falling down on the jumps. He’s not unbreakable. Nobody is.

Patterson is already waiting for him when Nate arrives at the rink five minutes late, because he was distracted and had to go back after he left his skates in the apartment. He’s a mess, there’s no other way to put it. The real low comes probably when he trips over his own foot during a step sequence, which is just, really.

Eventually his coach seems to have had enough of this, because he beckons him over to the side.

“What’s the matter, Nate?” he asks.

“Sorry, I just -- I can’t focus properly.”

“Is this about the accident yesterday?” Patterson asks quietly. “I know it looked bad, but you know that injuries happen. If you’re worried you’re going to hurt yourself --”

It could be true, from the logical point of view, but as soon as Nate hears the words, he realizes that the problem lies in an entirely different place.

“It’s not that, it’s just. . .It’s Brad,” Nate says and presses a hand to his forehead. It really is so simple and on the other hand it’s not simple at all, because the truth is just this: he is in love with Brad. And it’s not just a crush, a silly infatuation. Over the last few months Brad became almost a permanent fixture in Nate’s life and Nate didn’t really notice until now. It’s a bit scary and he’s not quite sure what to do about it. He slumps against the wall, suddenly feeling tired.

He sure as hell picked a dramatic moment to have his big revelation. Some trumpet noises would be fitting.

“I thought you might be afraid of injuring yourself now,” Patterson says cautiously. “But I guess this is not the case.”

Nate shakes his head mutely.

“I’m sure it won’t make him feel better if you break both of your legs, though.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Nate laughs weakly.

“Well, I might as well let you go home now,” Patterson says. “Since I doubt you’d get much training done now anyway.”

“I can try --” Nate starts to protest, but Patterson cuts him off.

“Go. I want you to get your shit together by tomorrow. Call him, visit him, if you think that will help.”

Sometimes Nate thinks his coach is too perceptive for his own good.

“What, and that’s it?” he asks incredulously.

“What more do you want me to say? Nate, you’re both adults. It’s your life and I trust you can make a right decision.”

Nate really hopes so too.

 

Later that day, he takes a bus to the hospital and changes his mind at the last possible moment, because maybe he shouldn’t just drop by unannounced. Brad is probably with his family and they might not want Nate around right now.

He sits down on the front steps instead and takes his phone out. Brad answers after the first signal.

“Nate?”

It feels really good to hear Brad’s voice. Nate isn’t sure when his life turned into a sappy romcom, but it kind of makes him want to bang his head against the wall. Not literally, because the wall looks hard, but it’s the sentiment that counts.

“Yes, hi. I just wanted to ask how you are feeling. Saw the fall yesterday, it looked nasty.”

“My knee is currently the size of a watermelon, but I’ll live.” Nate can practically hear Brad shrug.

“Oh, well, that’s good. Do you know if you’ll…” He falls silent, because he doesn’t really want to end this question, but Brad seems to know what Nate is thinking.

“The doc said maybe I could come back next year.” Brad pauses and adds, “I’m going to have surgery.”

“Fuck,” Nate says quietly, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Nate? Nate Fick?” somebody asks and he looks up. There’s a middle-aged woman standing in front of him. He thinks she looks familiar.

“Wait a second, I’ll call you back,” he tells Brad and ends the call.

“I thought I recognized you,” says the woman. “Susan Colbert. I’m Brad’s mom.”

“Oh, right,” Nate says, scrambling to his feet. He remembers her from some competitions, but he’s not sure if he’s ever talked to her. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I’ve heard only good things about you from my son. Are you here to visit Brad?”

“Kind of? I was just talking to him,” he says sheepishly, gesturing with his phone.

“Oh, just go upstairs,” she tells him, propelling him through the door.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Nate protests weakly, but she waves him off.

“Nonsense, Brad will be thrilled to see you. Sarah is with him right now, but he’s suffered from too much attention from the women in this family already and I fear eventually it’s going to end in homicide.”

“Oh, then I have no choice but to go,” Nate laughs. Mrs. Colbert directs him to Brad’s room and he runs up the stairs quickly.

The door is ajar and he knocks lightly on the frame. Brad is sitting on the bed, talking to a pretty brunette next to him. He looks up when Nate comes into the room.

“Hey,” says Nate.

“Were you just downstairs when you were talking to me?” Brad asks incredulously.

“I thought you might be busy,” Nate answers, blushing slightly. Brad looks pointedly around and down at his leg.

“We were planning a trip to the Himalayas just now, but we can stop if you’re already here.”

The girl swats his head. “Don’t mind my brother, he has no manners. Hi, I’m Sarah,” she introduces herself.

“Nate. Don’t worry, I’m used to it. I ran into your mom downstairs and she told me that Brad was getting ready to commit murder, so I came here to check if everyone was still alive.”

“Very funny, Fick,” Brad says.

“All right, I’ll leave you two alone.” Sarah stands up and picks up her bag from the small bedside table. “Do you know where’s the nearest Starbucks? I’m dying for coffee.”

“Turn right after you go through the main gate, it’s just at the end of the road,” Nate informs her. “Is everyone in your family a Starbucks junkie?” he asks Brad when Sarah is gone.

“Pretty much,” Brad agrees.

Nate sits in the only chair in the room and looks at Brad. He doesn’t say anything and the silence starts to get a little awkward.

“I don’t really know why I came here,” he admits. “I guess I just wanted to see if --”

“Nate, if you ask me if I’m all right, you’re going to find yourself on this bed with at least ten broken bones,” Brad informs him seriously.

“Okay, I won’t ask. At least I can be sure you didn’t hit your head,” Nate laughs.

“No, but seriously, what are you doing here? I thought you had practice at this time.”

“Bryan let me go early. I wasn’t in the best shape today,” Nate says, grimacing. “I’m under strict orders to get my shit together by tomorrow.”

“You’d better. At least now you have one competitor less to worry about.”

“Don’t say that!” Nate exclaims.

“I’m just kidding. You know I’m still going to kick your sorry ass next year.”

“In your dreams.” It’s easy, trading barbs with Brad like this. They fall into a pattern and for a moment it feels like nothing has changed. It’s almost enough for Nate to believe that maybe it really hasn’t.

\---

“And you’re supposed to use those damn crutches, not stick them into your closet the moment you’re home. Colbert, are you even listening to me?” Doctor Tim Bryan pauses his lecture to frown at Brad.

“Yes, I’m listening,” Brad tells him, looking down at his leg. His knee itches like a motherfucker.

“You’re going to seriously fuck it up if you don’t follow the rehab plan, so just try to act like a sensible person, if you’re capable of it.”

“Yes, I know,” Brad says impatiently. “We went over this already.”

“I’m just trying to make sure it actually got through to you.”

“It did.”

“Fine. You’re free to go then.”

Brad hauls himself to his feet. His mom is coming to pick him up, so at least he won’t have to bother with taking the subway.

His building has an elevator, but he refuses to use it and takes the stairs. His arms hurt when he finally stops at the fourth floor. Suddenly, he envies the pairs skaters and that’s definitely not the right train of thought.

Eloise runs to him when he opens the door and wrestles his bag through it. He refused his mom’s offer to help him and she stared at him disapprovingly, but didn’t argue too much – he’ll probably have to call her later.

He bends down to pet the cat, but she hisses at him when she sees his leg and backs up slowly. Funny, that’s how she reacted to Nate when he first came here.

Huh, that’s a weird thought, the last time Nate was here was over a year ago. Maybe he did hit his head after all.

\---

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 3:47 PM  
subject: congratulations

Saw Skate Canada. Nice skate. Guess that means GPF for you?

PS: Interesting choice of email address.  
___

from: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
to: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:10 PM  
subject: re: congratulations

Thanks, yeah, just got the official confirmation. But I’m not thinking about skating today, so please stop talking about it.

PS: Fuck off, I’ve had this email since junior high. You can’t blame the 13 year old me.  
___

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:16 PM  
subject: just curious

Didn’t you mean “fick off”?  
___

from: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
to: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:24 PM  
subject: re: just curious

I won’t even deign to reply to that.  
___

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:27 PM  
subject: re: re: just curious

I have your email sitting in my inbox – with a subject “RE: just curious”, I might add – so I think you’ve just contradicted yourself.  
___

from: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
to: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:35 PM  
subject: you think you’re funny

…but you really are not.  
How are you?  
___

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:37 PM  
subject: I know I’m funny

I’m contemplating a career in running track and I’ve taken up mountain biking in my spare time. What do you think?

Also, I think my cat misses you.  
___

from: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
to: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:41 PM  
subject: [no subject]

The things your cat would miss about me the most are my ankles for her to scratch. And possibly my shoelaces.  
Aw, was that your clever way of admitting you miss me?  
___

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
draft saved at: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:42 PM (13 minutes ago)  
subject: re: [no subject]

You should come over when you’re back

 

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
draft saved at: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:45 PM (10 minutes ago)  
subject: re: [no subject]

When are you coming back? We could grab coffee together

 

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
draft saved at: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:51 PM (4 minutes ago)  
subject: re: [no subject]

yes

 

from: Brad Colbert (bcolbert@gmail.com)  
to: Nate Fick (fickyeah@hotmail.com)  
date: Sat, Nov 21, 2009 at 6:55 PM  
subject: re: [no subject]

You wish.

\---

>   
> **  
> [Fick wins Nationals](http://i44.tinypic.com/27wszz9.jpg)   
> **   
> _Colbert still recovering from injury_
> 
> By Ray Griego | Posted: Jan 21, 07:37p ET | Updated: Jan 21, 07:37p ET
> 
> After the most disappointing season in his career, Nate Fick returned to win gold at the National Championships. He performed two routines, which may not have been the most challenging on the technical side, but the judges seemed to like the artistic value. It seems that Fick is once again trying to live up to the image created during his junior years. The question is, how much of his success today was owed to the absence of competition?
> 
> The defending champion, Brad Colbert, was forced to withdraw after a knee injury at the beginning of the season. Colbert already won the Nationals twice and was hoping to repeat the achievement this year.
> 
> [click to read more]
> 
>  
> 
> Comments  
> Sign in or register to comment and rate comments
> 
> Dustin77 | yeah, I still call bullshit | +13  
>  _18 minutes ago_
> 
> Fick’s junior years? How about senior national champion two years ago? Do your research, dude.  
> ___
> 
>   
> 

\---

 _June 2010_

 

Brad’s mom officially declares him an idiot -- not in those exact words, but the sense remains the same -- for ignoring his doctor’s orders, but Brad will go crazy if he has to rest even for one day longer. He knows the risk; he’ll take it easy at first.

At least that’s what he promises her on the phone.

His coach doesn’t object to him going back to the training. Not that Brad thought he would. According to Ferrando it takes more than a knee injury, even one demanding a surgery, to render the skater incapable of practicing.

Doc Bryan is the worst. Unlike Susan Colbert, he doesn’t mince his words and has no inhibitions against telling Brad exactly what he thinks about him. But Brad can be a stubborn motherfucker when he puts his mind to something and eventually the decision is made in his favor.

He tells Nate on the phone. Nate is silent for a moment, but eventually sighs and says he hopes that Brad knows what he’s doing. He sounds concerned and Brad finds himself reassuring him that it’s going to be be all right, he’s ready for it.

“Fine. When you need me to bring you painkillers just let me know, I’m here for you,” Nate says. It’s probably meant to be a joke, but somehow it doesn’t come out quite that way.

“Sure,” Brad replies and hangs up.

It feels good to be back on the ice after so much time. No, that’s not true – it feels fucking fantastic.

\---

 _July 2010_

 

Something falls down with a heavy thud in the locker room. Nate peers around the edge of the doorframe, unsure if he should come in.

Brad is sitting on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut. It’s clear the he’s hurting and Nate hates the fact that there’s nothing he can do to help him.

“Don’t just stand there, come in and close the fucking door,” Brad snaps.

“It’s your leg again, isn’t it?” Nate says. He continues when Brad doesn’t answer. “I really think you should talk to someone about it.”

Brad ignores him, and starts gathering his things, throwing them carelessly in his duffel bag.

“Brad,” Nate sighs. “Stop ignoring me, please.”

“Well, what the fuck do you want me to do?” Brad snaps. “Stop skating and wallow in misery because my knee hurts from time to time?”

“It’s not just from time to time, Brad! I have eyes, I see you after practice every day. You’re pushing yourself too hard and you’re just going to make this worse, you know it.”

Brad drops his bag and advances on Nate, backing him towards the wall.

“So what, you want me to quit? Right, maybe then you wouldn’t have to worry about competition anymore, is that it? News flash for you, that’s not happening.”

Nate staggers back as if Brad actually shoved him and his back hits the wall. He wants to say something, but the words are stuck in his throat. He can’t, Brad would never — not Brad.

Eventually he feels anger replace the hurt and straightens up, pushing Brad back and speaking in fast sentences. He doesn’t raise his voice, because he’s not sure what he would do if he lost control now.

“Is it so hard to understand that I don’t want to see you hurt? That I might actually fucking _care_?” Brad doesn’t answer, so Nate says, “You know what, it doesn’t matter.”

He strides to his locker and throws his things in haphazardly, kicking his shoes off and pulling on his skates. He doesn’t look up when Brad exits the room, the doors closing after him with a soft click.

They barely talk to each other during the following week, save for a terse hello when they happen to pass by each other in the hallway. If Nate were honest he’d be forced to admit he was trying to avoid Brad and Brad made it easier by avoiding Nate in turn.

He supposes they’re being childish, giving each other silent treatment instead of talking about it, but he can’t help feeling a little pang of hurt whenever he thinks about Brad’s words.

It lasts about a week, during which Nate gets so tired of the situation that he starts looking for a way to end it, for something to do or say. An opportunity happens when he meets Brad in the locker room again. It feels like going back in time. He wants it to go differently this time.

Brad sits on a bench, stretching his leg out in front of himself with a barely visible wince. He hasn’t noticed Nate yet.

Nate turns around quietly and exits the room. They keep ice packs in a freezer near the locker room for unfortunate accidents. He grabs one and doubles back to the room.

“Hey, catch,” he says quietly. Brad looks up and grabs the cold packet reflexively, pressing it to his knee.

“Thanks,” he answers. He looks unsure of what to say next, so Nate smiles tentatively and shrugs his shoulders.

“You’re welcome,” says Nate. Brad looks relieved and Nate realizes that maybe he’s been as tired with their argument as Nate has.

“Look, Nate,” Brad begins when Nate approaches his own locker and starts changing into his practice clothes. “I’m sorry for what I said last week. It was unfair and I shouldn’t have done it, so.”

“Hey, it’s all right,” Nate tells him. He takes off his shirt and bends down to pick a new one, a plain black t-shirt. Brad’s eyes rest on his chest maybe just a little longer than is considered polite and he turns his head, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. You were right, it was none of my business,” Nate continues.

“It’s nice,” Brad says abruptly. “To know that you care,” he explains at Nate’s puzzled look.

“Oh. Okay. Is it – are we all right now?” Nate asks hopefully.

“Yes. Yeah, we’re all right,” Brad says with a small smile.

\---

Brad likes skating at the empty rink, when the lights are dimmed and he’s alone with his thoughts. His coach left some time ago, treating him with another motivational speech at the end. Brad is in a good mood – he’s going back to form, slowly, but steadily, and his leg feels fine today.

He senses somebody watching him and sure enough, Nate is there, leaning against the boards and observing him with a small smile.

“Hi,” he says when he sees Brad looking at him.

“Hi yourself,” Brad replies, skating closer. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t have practice today.”

“I don’t. But the rink was supposed to be empty right now, so I could ask you the same question.”

“It’s peaceful here,” Brad says, shrugging. “Or was, until you showed up.”

“Very funny,” Nate tells him, elbowing him in the side playfully. “Well, since I already interrupted your peace and quiet, mind if I join you?”

“Oh, if you must…” Brad answers mock-sufferingly.

Nate just rolls his eyes and steps onto the ice. He glides across the rink to stand in the middle. His moves look so smooth and effortless that Brad almost envies him sometimes – it looks like it comes so naturally to him, like he can forget about endless hours of practicing every single element to look just right. He takes the whole frustration and pain out of it and makes it into something beautiful.

Wow. Brad really has it bad.

Nate picks up speed and launches himself into a huge jump, landing steadily on one foot. He grins triumphantly and skates up to Brad.

“Come on, skate with me,” he says, still smiling.

“Seriously?” Brad raises his eyebrows. “What now, are you considering a career in pairs skating? I wouldn’t mind though, less competition for me,” he says. Nate thwacks him on the arm.

“Hilarious, Brad. Yes, I’m serious, now come on,” he laughs. Brad lets him take his hand and drag him to the middle of the ice.

“I’m not doing a throw jump with you, don’t even think about it. Also, you’re the flower.”

Nate doesn’t answer, just takes both of Brad’s hands and starts skating backwards, slowly at first, but then picking up speed. They move around the rink just holding hands and it’s really so stupid, like they’re small children, and it’s fun.

Brad stops in one place, forcing Nate to move in circle around him. Nate catches on immediately and lets go of one of Brad’s hands. It’s like the most half-assed attempt at a death spiral ever and Nate ends up on his ass quick enough. They both start laughing at the same moment.

“I’ll have you know, I’m _awesome_ at pairs skating,” Nate says, getting up and brushing ice shavings from his pants.

“Right, I’m sure you’re going to win gold next year,” Brad tells him.

“I am!” Nate confirms. “I’m glad you agree.” He’s still smiling and Brad realizes what he just said.

“Oh no, you don’t. I’m going to kick your ass during the Nationals, you know it.”

“Too late, Colbert! You already admitted I’m the best.” Nate skates off to the exit and Brad speeds up to catch up with him. They race each other to the rink boundary and they get there at the same time. Nate turns around, starting to say something, but he trips on the uneven ice surface near the board. He stumbles backwards and Brad catches him around the waist. He doesn’t let go immediately, just looks at him and Nate’s lips are parted and Brad can feel his quick breath on his face, so he just kisses him.

\---

Brad is kissing him and _holy shit, Brad is kissing him_ and for a while that is the only coherent thought Nate can manage.

He raises his hands and grips Brad's forearms, kissing him back. It's messy and rushed, even frantic, and maybe it’s not the best kiss Nate could imagine, but it still feels kind of perfect. Nate fervently hopes they will have time to practice.

Nate groans and lets his head fall back when he feels Brad’s thigh sliding between his own legs. His fingers touch Brad’s abdomen lightly and he can feel the firm muscles flexing under his palm. He could move his hand just a few inches lower and – yeah, it’s too soon, they’re not at that point yet, but maybe – maybe someday they will be.

“Brad,” he gasps, pulling away to catch his breath.

“Fuck, Nate,” Brad pants, grabbing his hips and pulling him even closer. “Do you know how long I wanted --”

“No, wait, wait!” Nate turns away and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t think with Brad pressed against him like that and he desperately needs to clear his head. Brad grunts, pressing his lips to the side of Nate’s neck, but Nate pushes him back.

“No, wait, I’m serious,” he says, stepping away. “It’s just --” he pauses and takes a deep breath, looking Brad straight in the eyes. “Are you sure? Because I can't do this if you’re not sure.”

Brad looks at him and cups his cheek gently. Nate closes his eyes and slowly breathes out.

“I don’t want to act as if nothing happened,” he tells Brad quietly.

“Yeah, I know,” Brad answers. They are both silent for a moment and eventually Brad admits, “I want this – us – to work out, too.”

Nate smiles, relieved, and tangles his fingers in Brad’s shirt.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He pulls Brad closer and rests his forehead against Brad’s. They stay like that for a while, unmoving. The only sound he can hear is their breathing.

“I’ll still be competing. You know this,” Brad says after a moment.

“I know. I know it won’t be easy.” Nate looks up at him. “But we’ll figure it out, right?”

Brad kisses him slowly in answer and thinks that they really will.

 

-end

 

\---

...except that it doesn’t really end there

 

 _January 2011_

 

“We’re here with Nate Fick, two times national champion and all that. Nate totally kicked ass, ow, Walt, what was that for?” Ray winces, rubbing his shin.

“Ray, please, just try to remember that you're on national TV,” Walt says, rolling his eyes. He seems like exactly Ray’s opposite and Nate really has no idea how they ended up being best friends. Maybe it’s true what they say about opposites attracting.

“Right, I’ll behave,” Ray says, turning back to the camera. He’s always like that, they all used to wonder how his boss puts up with him, but apparently Ray’s commentaries get the best ratings, so nobody really minds. “So Nate was awesome last year and now he’s defending the title. What are your feelings before the short program?”

“Thanks, Ray. I’m fine,” Nate says.

“What, and that’s it? Come on, aren’t you nervous?”

“I think I’m saving the nerves for after the skate,” he laughs.

“Oh, fine. So, Brad Colbert is back to the competition,” Ray announces, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, I’m aware of this,” Nate replies impassively. “I even saw him at the rink today.”

“Well, do you think he’s got a shot at the medal this season?”

“Why not? He’s always been a great skater and he’s back to form. Anything can happen. And we’re probably going to celebrate either way,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

Ray looks at him with wide eyes. “Did you just seriously --”

“What? I didn’t say anything. We spend a lot of time together at the rink and we have a great relationship. As friends.”

\---

“Seriously?” Brad asks him the minute the doors close after him. “Did you seriously just out us on national TV?”

“I did no such thing. You shouldn’t over-interpret things you hear,” Nate says dryly, coming closer and wrapping his arms around Brad’s waist. “Did you mind?” he asks a moment later.

“No,” Brad tells him. “Do you know you’re trending on Twitter?”

“Really? Wait, since when do you know what’s trending on Twitter?”

“Since Ray saw it fit to inform me. Repeatedly. You don’t want to see my inbox right now.”

Nate sits on the couch (it’s still as comfortable as it was three years ago) and picks up Brad’s laptop from the coffee table. Eloise the cat hops onto his lap and purrs happily.

That figuring it out thing? Turns out they’re pretty good at it.

\---

>  **twirlsntwizzles** heeeee, fick for the win! #fickmeitsgood  
>  4 minutes ago via web
> 
>  **ninjasareawesome** omg they’re gonna get married and have little ice babies together #fickmeitsgood  
>  2 minutes ago via TweetDeck
> 
>  **twirlsntwizzles** @ninjasareawesome geez, dude, that was a disturbing mental image  
>  1 minute ago via web in reply to ninjasareawesome
> 
>  **pooky** oh my god, fick actually pulled an eisenberg on national TV #fickmeitsgood  
>  half a minute ago via web
> 
>  **kilts_on_ice** @ninjasareawesome NOW THERE’S TWO LESS LONELY PEOPLE IN THE WORLD TONIGHT  
>  20 seconds ago via web in reply to ninjasareawesome

 

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Art:**  
> [by finite_farfalla](http://finite-farfalla.livejournal.com/94186.html) (There are links in the story to the wonderful fake articles made by , be sure to check them out ;)  
> [by madnessisreal](http://madnessisreal.livejournal.com/27772.html#cutid1) (IT'S SO AMAZING, seriously *____*)


End file.
